


Francesca and Clarant

by veeoheyedee



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veeoheyedee/pseuds/veeoheyedee
Summary: Follow me, set me free, trust me and we will (get into) the city.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Francesca and Clarant

Sunlight bled through the many holes punctured in the forest’s canopy, glistening off the rain-dampened leaves that coated the wide pathway. The trees that lined either side of the path stood in every direction except straight up. The Finhand region was notorious for infrequent strong winds, though its intensity remained an understatement to those that could not read between the lines, as any who did not seek refuge within or beneath equally strong and sturdy walls whenever they occurred would risk certain death. The Free City of Caritthral embodied the peak of humanity’s defence against this danger, as much as the surrounding forest represented nature’s. Deep roots snaked far beneath the earth, digging in like claws and refusing any attempt to be removed from their home. The surface may often become bruised and deformed, but the core foundation would remain ever defiant.

On the other hand, saying that your city suffered from calamitous weather at least three times every year would wreak its own ‘strong wind’ on tourism and trade. The city recommends,  _ insists _ , on strong as its descriptor, perhaps as a means to pretend the city is not cursed by some twisted magic, or perhaps as a means to lie without lying and keep business as usual. Francesca knew well which option she had decided as the truth long ago, and she certainly did not entertain curses seriously for any length of time.

The air of the forest carried with it a chill, and Francesca had decided to warm it up with a song. An ancient, dirty Tair’ano ditty, sung beautifully off-key and with additional, dirtier words replacing the original lyrics, all for the entertainment of the travel companion beside her and the two rented horses they rode on. Clarant seemed unamused by her serenade everytime she looked, and Francesca felt somewhat hurt by it. He used to love that song. The horses seemed to like it at least, what with their glassy-eyed stares and big perked ears and other iconic horse-like features that indicated their definite enjoyment. So she kept on singing. And she would keep singing until she heard Clarant laugh once again, for the first time in over five years.

Clarant didn’t laugh. Instead, he said, “Have you thought of a plan yet, then?” in the same drab, humourless tone he had used about twenty minutes ago, and interrupted her singing.

“Funny you should ask,” she said, transitioning mid-note to spoken word. “I have.”

Clarant flicked his chin up, keeping as much expression off his rounded, stubbled face as he could. “Go on.”

“Aye,” Francesca said. She rubbed her nose, and began thinking up a ‘plan’ right there and then. “So, when we reach the gates, right? Get right up to them and see the aul guards there, right?” She twisted in her saddle to face Clarant, and met his blank stare. “We’re going to hop off, get down on our knees and say “Oh please, Mr. Soldiers, please, please, ple-- _ pwease _ let us in.” She brought a clenched, shaking fist up against her chin, eyes squeezed shut. “We promise we won’t do anything bad. Promise!”

Clarant grunted in clear displeasure. “Should’ve guessed,” he said. Francesca blew into her fist to warm it up, then took hold of the horse reins once more, and adopted a more serious demeanour. 

“Look, Clarant. Don’t concern yourself about it.” A twig snapped beneath the weight of her horse’s hoof. “If we can’t get in through the main entrance, there’re plenty of other ways into Carittharl. Ways I’d prefer not to take if it can be helped, but we’ve no shortage of options.” 

“That doesn’t fill me with any more confidence,” Clarant said. He ran a stressed hand through his shoulder length hair. “Just tell me how we’re getting inside the city.”

“You don’t like surprises anymore?” Francesca said without looking. His resulting breath indicated growing frustration, and that was when she turned again and smirked. “Trust me on this. We’re getting through those gates. I know it.”

“You don’t sound so sure, Francesca,” Clarant said, and she secretly hated that their friendship had regressed so far during their time apart that he would refer to her by name in full, as much as she disliked doing the same to him in kind. “If this Joesph is the one organising this whole job, then why hasn’t he arranged a way into the city for us?”

“Joshuel,” Francesca corrected, and Clarant sniffed in disinterest. “And he couldn’t because all this royal wedding shit got in the way. Didn’t have time to wait on him writing up an entry permit if I wanted you in on the heist as well.”

Francesca could almost hear all the questions hanging by the neck from Clarant’s tongue, ones that she certainly did not want to answer at that moment. She had intentionally neglected to say much of importance at all during the five day travel from Clarant’s home of Ruslin village to here, and Clarant had proven himself either too meek or too stubborn to ask the questions that might have mattered to him. That much, she thought, had remained the same about him, for better or worse. Only the vague promise of enough riches to end all his worries had reluctantly convinced him to take a temporary leave from his family and newfound life of farming and become Francesca’s travel partner once more.

“I would’ve been fine if I’d just stayed put,” Francesca went on. “Was already inside before they started restricting entry and all.” She blocked out strong sunbeams with her hand as the forest canopy opened up further. “Could’ve been supping brandy and sleeping under covers all week if I hadn’t thought you might want to make a bit of extra money.” 

Francesca sensed that the question Clarant asked next had not been the question he actually wanted to ask. “And what made you think I’d say yes?” 

With a thin smile, Francesca shrugged. “You’re here now, boyo, so there’s not much point putting extra thought into it. I’d’ve been here regardless anyway.” 

Clarant grunted lightly in acknowledgment and clicked his heels on stirrups. “Fair, then. Still not sure how we’re making it in without these passes, though.”

“Bat your eyelashes, Clarant,” Francesca said, turning her head with a wide grin. “And if that doesn’t swoon the garda, then start battering them over the head.”

Clarant’s face retained a chilling air of over-serious unamusement as he tugged at the neck of his travelling cloak. Francesca’s grin fell to exaggerated, mocking disgust, and she rolled her eyes as she faced forwards. She leaned over and scratched her rent-horse behind the ear, gaining no reaction from the beast. “I’ll know better than to joke around with a married man next time,” she said, and then again stared directly at him. She saw her travel partner’s mouth twitch, but little else. Francesca heaved a breath, yet made no sound.

Ten more minutes of silence between them filled their continued journey. The width of the forest path fluctuated between small and large, wavelike in its pattern, working around the trees instead of the trees making way for it. Tiny figures soon made themselves noticed in the far distance, silhouetted black against the late morning sun. They were travelling slowly in Francesca’s and Clarant’s direction. 

“Shit,” Clarant swore aloud, and moved his hand to pull the hood of his travelling cloak over his head and protect his identity long before it would become a real concern. With the hood already halfway over his head, Francesca held a hand out towards Clarant. 

“Na-na-na-nah,” Francesca rattled off. “Wait.”

“They could be anyone,” Clarant said calmly, then followed through with his previous intention. “Not taking the chance.” 

“Hood’s not going to do you much good if they’re trouble,” Francesca said. She craned her long neck higher, lifting herself up off the saddle as though trying to see over the horizon itself. It would take at most a few minutes before they crossed paths, and Francesca clacked her tongue for at least ten seconds of it. Then she formed her idea.

She grabbed a fistful of her long hair and scrunched it, then another, flinging it over her head before ruffling it with both hands wildly. 

“The hell are you doing?” Clarant whispered, his confusion plain in his narrowed eyes. Head facing down, Francesca pointed a bony finger at him. 

“Take your hood down,” she said. “Mess your hair up a wee bit.” She took her boot off the stirrup and awkwardly brought it higher while simultaneously leaning down towards it, almost losing balance on her steed in the process.

“Uh,” Clarant said. Francesca rubbed as much mud that was still somewhat wet on the sole of her boot onto her finger, then hastily applied it to her face, rubbing it in as intensely as lotion. “Uhhh.”

“Would you hurry up,” she said, cleaning her finger on her cloak and dirtying it in the process. “Before they figure out what we’re doing.”

“Figure  _ what _ out?” Clarant said, his tone hushed. “Forget them -  _ I _ don’t even know what you’re up to.” 

“Never you mind right now,” she said, smiling. She had already splashed some of the contents of her waterskin onto her hand and began lightly dabbing at her face, making the mud streak down. “Just trust me.”

With an exasperated sigh, Clarant took down his hood and began riling up his fair coloured hair. Noticing he lacked the elasticity to acquire his own dirt, Francesca held up her leg. “Hold still,” she said, grinning evily. “I’ll kick y’in the fuckin’ face.” Clarant moved his horse away slightly, and then Francesca insisted that a good amount of water to skin would do instead. She laughed gently and only to herself, then steeled her attention forward, sitting straight in her saddle.

“Let me do the talking,” she said. Clarant simply twisted his head and scrunched his nose.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

The closer the figures got, the more confident Francesca felt about her plan. They didn’t appear to be soldiers on patrol, and gave off no threatening appearance otherwise. But she knew she didn’t have an honest answer to give to Clarant - not one she wanted to admit anyway - so all she gave him was “Don’t worry.”

As the light gave fuller form to the approaching figures, Francesca held up a hand. “Ho there,” she said lightly, presenting herself as friendly as she could manage. “Escaping the chaos?”

The figure on the left raised a hand back in greeting and spoke first - a kind-faced man on horseback. “Suppose you could say that,” he said with a toothy smile. His tone betrayed no hint of suspicion or wariness towards her or Clarant, and on that front alone Francesca found herself relaxing. A woman rode beside him, with a child perched snugly in front of her. Large bags weighed down the man’s steed, indicating that wherever they were planning on going, they intended to be there for some time.

“Though I see you two are heading towards it,” the man added. When she saw that he was slowing his horse, Francesca felt her opportunity stretching ever higher. She slowed down as well.

“Aye, you know. We love us a good, ah,  _ event _ from time to time.” She spat out a grand lie and held it in her hands as truth. “Hard to pass up a spectacle like a royal weddin’, says me.” She rolled her eyes and tutted. “Mad in the head, more like.”

The man bellowed out a laugh that undoubtedly woke a couple of late-sleeping birds. “It certainly does take a certain sort of person,” he said. His manner of speech and choice of clothing sold him as a well-to-do sort - not quite a noble, but definitely not a gutter-beggar either. At the very least he wasn't so up his own ass that he wouldn’t talk to someone that looked as though they'd been raked over the face, but evidently, neither was he one to take much notice of her and Clarant’s self-made disheveled appearance.

“We prefer the peace and quiet,” the woman said, her soft, friendly tone as delightfully persuadable as the man’s. “Not that we ever get much of that in Caritthral at the best of times.” She chuckled pleasantly, as did the man beside her.

Francesca smiled and nodded, and took note of the young boy shyly glancing up at her. “Youse live inside the city, then?” she prodded, while silently and excitedly waving a hand at the child. He sucked his bottom lip in and looked down at the horse’s neck beneath him.

The man sighed, and with wet hoof slaps his horse finally came to a stop and prepared for a conversation to start. “Unfortunately so,” he said. “My wife and I run a bookstore there,” he said, moving his hand between himself and the woman beside her. “Islind’s Notes. The business in the city is certainly lucrative enough for us, although we’d much prefer to move it off somewhere we’d feel more at home.”

“And somewhere a bit less breezy with a touch more fresh air,” his wife jokingly added. At a glance, Francesca presumed the couple to be in their early thirties, and the child on the woman’s side to be around nine. Her tone alone however held enough whimsical airiness to remind her of an old granny speaking fondly about the good old days of her youth.

“Better for the little one as well, I’d say,” Francesca offered, and the woman nodded enthusiastically in agreement. “But sure, there’d be plenty of money to be made in the madness too.”

“Old man Islind’s taken over for the time being,” the man said. He shifted in his saddle and beamed warmly. “Given us time to take a little holiday while everything blows up around him.” He looked towards Clarant, who only nodded gently after a delay. 

“Your father would know all about blowing up though, wouldn’t he Oran?” His wife tittered, and she rested a small hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Used to be a bombmaker in his prime, he did.” Oran smiled proudly and patted his wife’s hand. 

“He’s a tough old sort, and rather excited for the upcoming wedding as well,” Oran continued, “So that makes him the perfect substitute to let us escape for a while,” Oran finished. “He’s not one for books, but he certainly knows how to sell them.”

“I see,” Francesca said, marvelling at how the couple in front of her could have said so much about themselves with so little provocation, and to complete strangers no less. It was then that she was assured they were prime marks, and had they met under any other circumstance at any other time, she would have considered robbing them of a trinket or two on principle. But not now, and certainly not when a child was in their presence.

“Well, wherever you’re planning on going for your wee break,” Francesca said, trying to further her own agenda, “you’ll not want to head down this road.”

The man’s eyes widened inquisitively. “Oh? Why’s that, madame?”

“Dirty bandits and  _ thieves, _ about an hour past,” Francesca lied, emphasising with enough disgust to really sell it. She waved a hand across her face, drawing unmissable attention to it. “We only about managed to scrape by ourselves. Still bloody sweatin’ just thinking about it.” She could already sense Clarant’s internal objections whiring up from behind her, yet mercifully he kept his mouth shut.

The wife raised her hand daintily to her mouth, while the child perked up with great interest. “Oh my goodness,” she said, her other hand clasping her chest. “Were you hurt?”

“Nah,” Francesca said breathily. “We’re fine. Bit of a scuffle,” she added, pulling back her travel cloak to reveal a rapier strapped to her saddle, “but we bolted quick enough. They gave up chase eventually.” At that moment the horse snorted, as though the dumb brute was trying its best to rat her out. “Don’t mean to be rude like,” she said, patting the steed’s neck, “but youse don’t look like you’ve got a lot in the way of defending yourselves.”

“Well,” Oran said, before trailing off in embarrassment. He looked past them. “I... never quite considered it, I suppose. The roads here are usually quite safe.” 

“Usually, maybe,” Francesca said quickly. “Except when some sneaky aul’ ne'er-do-wells hear about a good enough reason to  _ make _ them unsafe.”

The man and the wife seemed to mull that over for a while. “That is true, Oran,” the woman eventually whispered over. “I  _ told _ you we should have hired someone.” The husband however showed some skepticism to the idea.

“Well, perhaps they’ve moved on by now,” he said optimistically. “They’d be fools to stay in one place after you two slipped through their grasp.”

“You don’t have to be bright to be a good bandit,” Francesca said, lowering her head. “And these ones certainly weren’t the brightest bunch. They’ll move half a mile up the road and think that’s good enough.”

The woman held onto her child tighter, and he seemed to squirm a little. “Oh dear,” she said, her smooth face now fallen to that of intense worry. “This… this is too much Oran. I think we should go home, for now.” Francesca knew then that she had the woman wrapped around her finger, yet did not appreciate how much oafish resistance her husband was putting up. 

He looked to his wife pleadingly. “Well, I think we should take a chance anyway de-”

“No!” The woman yelled out in spontaneous anger, as though she had fully expected his suggestion and still felt full offence at it. The boy covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. “Absolutely not, Oran! We will  _ not _ be taking a chance!” 

“But dear, there’s no way th--”

“You would put our son at risk, just like that!?” she spat. “Have you no thoughts at all in that empty head of yours?!” She gripped her horse’s reins like her life depended on it and guided her horse to face the opposing direction, back the way they came. 

“But Perinth, dear, I--” He turned with her.

“I’ll hear no more of this, Oran,” she said decisively. “We are returning home and will be hiring an escort as soon as possible -  _ as I had suggested before _ , if you shall remember most vividly.” She cracked her reins and sat straight in her saddle, like a true and confident rider. His son leaned over to the side and waved at his father.

“Bye dad,” he squeaked out.

In that moment, with the son turning away and the couples’ backs to her, Francesca pumped her fist. She twisted her head around and shot Clarant a cheeky grin. He simply bared his teeth and shook his head disapprovingly. Francesca trotted up beside Oran as he made feeble protestations towards his steadily shrinking wife.

He turned to Francesca in desperation. “Perhaps you two would lead us through the forest? Surely those brigands wouldn’t dare attack us when they see you again, a-and we could reward you generously.”

“Like I told you, friend,” Francesca said gently, “we barely got away ourselves, and there’s enough of them to take us on, and worse. And besides, our destination’s that-a-way.” She pointed straight ahead, and the man’s shoulders sagged at her revelations. “Hate to break it to you, but your better half’s right. Should’ve had a sellsword or two by your sides.”

Oran sighed, but said nothing. Absolutely defeated - and therefore absolutely ripe for the picking. 

“We could lead youse back home though, if you like,” she offered, tapping her palm on her rapier for extra emphasis. “Never know what swoops in to fill the gaps you leave behind. Know what I mean?” 

Oran looked at her as though all life had been forcibly sucked from his big brown eyes. Francesca wanted nothing more than to slap him and tell him to get a fucking grip, but instead she smiled sadly and stared sympathetically - and had she a mirror, she would’ve wanted to slap herself for that as well.

“Of course,” he eventually said. “Of course. Name your price.”

“Only a favour,” Francesca said. “We lost our entry permits in all the fuss with those bandits back there. Now I’m sure the guards are taking a shiny sover or two for them at the gates - all under-the-counter like.  _ But _ , I don’t much enjoy the thought of paying for something that’s already mine, if you catch me.”

“Yes,” Oran said absentmindedly. He rubbed at his creasing forehead, face reddening deeper in embarrassment from his wife’s scolding. “Of course, yes, I understand. A friend of ours works in the gatewatchers. We can get you inside the city. Absolutely.”

“Then we’ll be ever grateful to you,” Francesca said, bowing slightly in her seat. “I’m Jenny,” she said, holding out her hand to Oran. He didn’t seem to take notice of her mud stained finger as he took hold and shook weakly. “This here’s my associate, Keith,” she then said, holding out her other hand towards Clarant. Clarant’s eyes darted from her to Oran as the man turned around to face him and raised a kind, clammy hand in greeting. Clarant only offered back a flat “Hello.”

“I’m Oran,” Oran said, placing a hand on his chest.

_ I already know.  _ “Chuffed to meet you,” Francesca said. “But we should really catch your darling wife before she escapes us.”

Oran almost fell from his saddle as he turned comically. He warbled as he spurred his horse into movement, bags rattling against its rough hide and spraying dirt underhoof. 

With a final, triumphant glance at Clarant, she winked, and received a blank stare in retort. “You just ruined that family’s day,” he said sternly.

“Postponed it at best,” Francesca said. She looped her reins around her palms. “And If you really want to crawl through a shitpipe to get inside those walls, then I suggest you speak up to them about it.”

Had it been the Clarant she knew, a flurry of threats and accusations would have made claims to give up the goose and ruin the opportunity for them both as he moved beside her, and their back and forth would end in mutual agreement that they would end each other’s lives for the pettiest of reasons, only to be forgotten about moments later as they laughed and carried on after the couple, side by side. Instead she was silently shocked when a stranger that looked like her old friend huffed a breath and strode on ahead of her, saying nothing, and leaving her behind to play catch up. Francesca knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t blow this for them, because she knew, somehow, that deep down he still agreed with her, that despite the admittedly nasty deception the opportunity was an excellent one. Perhaps, she thought, in their time apart - with Kinlis, the woman he loved, and the daughter he had told Francesca next to nothing about - her friend had grown softer, and perhaps, for all that she felt she had changed too, she had only grown more ruthless and callous in her age.

She caught herself slipping into old memories and decided now would not be the time - and honestly, she would rather not think about them at all. Francesca played her game of catch-up, and set about trying to acclimate herself further to her temporary charges, whose day she had only temporarily spoiled.

\---

In the half-hour space it took them to reach the hill that overlooked the Free City of Caritthral and its towering, decorative stone buildings, the family Francesca and Clarant ‘protected’ on the way there had just about expended all the questions that they could think of. Most of the time they let the married couple ramble away about their business, home, the upcoming wedding - one that would unify the Horin and Ergant Royal Families, and was soon to be taking place within the distinctly royalless Free City - and themselves. Francesca only paid enough heed to nod and make affirmative noises at appropriate times, and when it came to her opinions of the royals, she said her piece then promptly and intentionally forgot about it. 

For the majority of questions that were directed at her and Clarant, they downplayed or danced around them fairly successfully, Clarant by staying mostly quiet and Francesca through a small whirlwind of white lies. 

For the questions they didn’t mind answering, they kept the details vague. “Jenny” and “Keith” had known each other for “quite some time”. They were here mostly for pleasure, but also to do “some business” with “their employer.” When they noted Francesca’s Tair’ano accent, she didn’t wish to say more than yes, she hailed from there, but that she had not been home for “a long time”. When it was presumed that they were both a couple, a direct answer in the negative quelled all notions. When felt forced to, Clarant mentioned he had a family of his own - and nearly gave up his real name in the process, which he deftly and impressively skated around in his recovery - and when asked why they weren’t visiting the city with him, he said little more than “they didn’t want to.” When Francesca was asked if she had a family to call her own as well, she brushed it off with a joke, as she often did. 

The married couple’s son, Erin, had also found the courage to ask a couple of questions, mainly about Francesca’s rapier and their ‘scuffle’ with the ‘bandits’. While she gave enough vague embellishments about their ‘turmoil’ to get the young one’s mind racing, she told a half-truth about her rapier - it was a family heirloom, and a gift from her father. In full truth, only one of those was correct. The way his mother, Perinth, gripped her child and gently chided him whenever he asked his innocent, harmless questions settled Erin undoubtedly in Francesca’s mind as a boy being coddled to death. Sad, in a way, but really none of her concern.

Oran shaded his eyes from the sun and looked down at the body-flooded bridge and portcullis that led into Caritthral. “Goodness me,” he exclaimed. “It’s as though they haven’t moved at all since we left.”

“It seems we’ll be waiting quite a while,” Perinth said. She turned to face Francesca and Clarant and smiled softly. “Hope you two aren’t in any rush to venture inside.”

Francesca flattened her lips in amused acknowledgment, and Clarant barely reacted. The din of voices and laughter and impatience from the crowd surrounding the gates grew predictably louder as they approached. Carriages and animals were strewn about the stone paved bridge that led up to the wooden drawbridge with little organisation. Foreign merchants that had arrived to flog their baubles and trinkets discussed tactics with other likeminded traders, and those who wished to bolster their sales early had already made their wares available to interested parties as they waited. Scores of children ducked and weaved their way between the gaps in the crowd, their laughter only adding further to the cacophony while the adults gossiped amongst each other. 

Excitement was surely flowing, and it was enough to sweep Francesca away in its waves while simultaneously drowning her. She always felt some strange comfort in the midst of the crowd, and always in spite of how much she wished not to be within one. She looked over to Clarant and saw him pinching the entire width of his head between finger and thumb, no doubt to nurse a spiking headache. He glanced sideways whenever she patted him on the back and smiled, but just as quickly turned his gaze back downwards and said nothing. Francesca sighed heavily, and the crowd hid it away.

They stayed close to the married couple as the gate guards called the crowd forward bit by bit. The stress in the guards shouting voices was palpable, between having to speak over a hundred and more voices using the power of only six, and having to no-doubt deal with many belligerent tourists. That the only one who appeared to be armed also happened to be one standing away from the chaos was perhaps a little more telling than Francesca found comfortable. 

Francesca turned her gaze skyward in the interim, locking eyes with the stone buildings that leaned over the walls. They were built as though in mockery, as bent and unstable looking as the trees of the forest like the fierce winds had affected them also, yet their considered construction ensured that they were never quite in danger of falling over. Still, everything on Caritthral’s surface was ultimately only there to keep up appearances, a mere puppet show. People lived and operated on it for certain, because the buildings were there, and were safe to reside in no matter what conditions arose, and the city was always in desire of constant and consistent trade to stay healthy and relevant. Yet, anyone that knew anything about Caritthral - and Francesca knew a thing or two - also knew that the real veins that kept the city’s blood flowing lay further beneath the earth, in the tunnels and business that quite literally undermined the competition. Land in Caritthral wasn’t sold in acres - it was sold in depths.

She tapped her fingers on her knee as the crowd was called forward another few steps, keeping her eyes fixed on Perinth in front of her. Clarant had taken to folding his arms, digging his heels into his stirrups and making the leather creak. She didn’t feel like trying to strike up another conversation that was doomed to fail with him, so she kept quiet.

To her right, she heard distinct whisperings among the rest of the noise, and couldn’t help but feel they were somehow being directed at her. She chose to ignore them at first, until solid words formed.

“Lassie,” she heard. “Lassie.”

The voice sounded familiar, and she grew scared to even look. 

“Lassie!” it yelled in hushed tones. And after a small rustling punctuated with a shrill swear, another voice sounded off at her. 

“Ellen? Issit yerself there?” And with the following cry of “Would ye get yer feckin hand off me lovely face,” from the first voice, Francesca knew undeniably that she was potentially in very deep trouble. 

With a deep breath kept to herself and a slow turn of her head, Francesca said “Excuse me?” in her most sugar-buried voice. She was torn between saying it loud enough for their charges to hear as well and trying to diffuse the situation quietly, and in the end, she decided to bet on stealth.

Two long-eared heads were poking out from the open back of a rickety carriage. The short-haired one belonged to a young woman, Lottie, and the face she currently smushed the cheek of was her older brother Perkins. And if they were here, that also meant --

Sure enough, their little brother Quibble’s shot out from between them, and he grinned unnaturally wide, proudly showing off his crooked teeth. And not a moment after, a deep grumbling from inside the carriage foreshadowed the appearance of Helsin, the youngest sister who jumped on top of all the other three to get a view herself.

“‘s it Els? ‘s it Els?” she said, frantically flinging her small head around until she caught eyes with her target and smiled with a gaping mouth. “Hels! Look, look!” She threw her arm out and waggled it to and fro, displaying in her hand a crude wicker doll with one too many pins sticking out from it. “Look! I mades it meself! Look!” 

“Get  _ back _ in der!” The older elven sister clamped a hand over Helsin’s face and pushed her away into the depths of the carriage again and struggled to hold her back, as though trying to banish a demon from the moral realm. 

“No, I wanna see!” 

At the same time, Perkins clawed at Lottie’s wrist. “Come on, ye wench! Get yer grubby hands off me!” And just before the carriage devolved into a whirlwind of chaos all of its own, a sudden crack of a whip from the rider of the carriage silenced them. 

“Quiet-’n there, chil’uns,” came the quick and stern voice of the elder Perkins, his head focused forwards. “Yer disturbin-all-the folks.” The horse that stood beside the carriage showed its nervousness at the whipcrack, and its rider attempted to sooth it. “Sorry-‘bout-that lad,” the carriage rider apologised, then Francesca felt her own nervousness rising when he also caught Perinth’s attention. “An’ you-too-there missus. They’re-a-wil’-bunch aw I tell-ye.” He didn’t seem to notice Francesca. 

Her heart leapt into her throat when Perinth acknowledged the elder Perkins with a humoured, but uncomfortable smile. Thankfully, she didn’t appear to be paying all that much attention to the commotion, and Erin in front of her appeared more focused on the blue sky above. 

“Sorry da,” said all backcarriage riders in unison. Then they turned their attention right back to Francesca at exactly the same time. 

Lottie spoke. “So why ye here, Ellen? Huh? Gonna see the big weddin’? Huh?”

Francesca coughed gently. She felt her face burning up. “I - sorry, but, I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said.

Perkins the younger blinked. “Eh? Buh--”

Francesca coughed again,  _ louder _ , and twisted her head as she moved slightly closer. “I, think,” she said slowly, “you’ve got--” she winked -- “the wrong--” she winked again -- “person.” She winked twice more, then again for good measure.

After a pause, the oldest brother scratched his freckled face, and his ears twitched. “Eh?” 

Lottie, on the other hand, narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “But, y’look  _ exactly _ like someone w’know,” she said.

Francesca rapidly flitted her eyes nervously between Perinth and the elven bunch. “Sorry, but, I’m not her,” she said, enunciating every word quietly and carefully. She pressed her palm against her collarbone a couple of times, until an audible thud was heard. “I’m Jenny.  _ Jen-ny _ .”

All three pairs of eyes hanging out the carriage honed in on her. “Are you sur--”

“ _ Yes, _ ” Francesca said through gritted teeth. She could feel the veins popping out from her neck. “I am  _ absolutely sure _ .”

Perkins shook his head, his mouth pursed. “Nah, n’way. I’d recognise tha’ giraffe neck anywhere.”

“Sorry,” Francesca pressed desperately. She had a defensive hand resting against her throat before she even realised. “I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.” Then with a cautious glance forward, she craned her head out towards them and mouthed ‘Shut. Up,” violently enough to inadvertently spit. 

“Wait, wait wait waaaait,” Lottie said, as though she was on the verge of discovering information of monumental value. “If you’re na’ who we think you are... but y’look like someone we know…” the young woman trailed off, and her eyes searched the right corner of her head. Then they widened, and her mouth hung agape. “You’ve been possessed!?”

Francesca could only blink in response. 

The older brother let out a shaky “No…” while the younger only frowned. Lottie clutched her head between her hands and pressed down in panic. 

“Ah Gads, ah Gads, aGads!”

“It can’t be...” continued Perkins the younger.

“Wha?” came Helsin’s voice from within. “Wha’s goin’ ahn’?”

“Quick, y’wee brat,” Lottie said, disappearing inside. “Get the incense.”

A pause. “Uhhmn, why?” 

“‘Cause we need it - hurry up!”

“Can’.”

“Why nah?”

Another pause, and then a bashful, “‘cus I ate it all.”

“Well y’better get it ba’ up quick like - Ellen’s been possessed!”

“El--Els been What!? What?!!”

“Hurry!”

By the time muffled wretching sounds streamed from the carriage, Perkins the younger had already fallen into a deep, unrecoverable despair, slumped over the edge like a man devoid of all hope. Quibble had started smiling again, and only looked confused and lost.

“Guys, listen,” Francesca attempted to plead.

“Ah, wai’, fuck - there’s the incense there,” said Lottie.

“Oh yea!” came Helsin’s joy. “I forgat, I din’ eat it after all!” The two sisters rushed to the rescue as they leaned out the carriage, with Lottie pressing down on Perkins the younger with her full weight. She began haphazardly spreading scented dust from a non-descript box in Francesca’s general direction, while Helsin stood above her waved a pendulum in small circles. The gentle breeze carried the dust further down the bridge and straight into the face of another waiting person - who rather than say anything, simply gave a dirty look and moved out of its path - and absolutely none of it touched Francesca in any way.

“Ah me dear Gads up in the heavens there,” Lottie chanted, throwing incense without care, “bless this torcherd soul that shares ‘er home unwillin’ly. Priff-thee, may y’free ’er of this cursed ‘Jenny’, the aul’ heur who hath-th stolen aur’ gal from us.”

“Yea, get outta her, ya bitch!” yelled Helsin, and then promptly threw the wicker doll in her other hand right into ‘Jenny’s’ head. Francesca flinched as it fell to the ground, and then Helsin immediately brought her hands to mouth and gasped, realising what she had done. “Wicky! No!” She clambered out of the carriage and pattered barefoot over to her doll, then threw a tantrum whenever she wasn’t able to climb back up herself. Eventually, Quibble dragged her up, and she disappeared into the depths again.

Francesca felt just about ready to cry. “Please,” she said, shaking her head. “Stop.”

“It’s working,” Lottie exclaimed, and sped up her incensing. “It’s working!”

“Listen.” Rapidly checking to make sure that Perinth was still distracted, Francesca moved physically closer, blocking the clouds of incense with her hand. Though Lottie initially backed away, still convinced that she was some alter-ego, the young woman quickly calmed. Francesca spoke in whispers, leaning close in to them. “Look, I’ll catch up with you guys later. I’m, ah, I’m undercover right now, y’get? And if youse blow it for me, I won’t be able to get inside the city.”

Lottie’s eyes widened at the revelation, and Perkins the younger came back to life. “Ohh,” said Lottie. “Oooooohhhh.”

“You mean yer alrigh’?” Perkins said, then immediately smiled triumphantly and jammed his elbow into Lottie. “See, I taul’ ye not t’worry, din’ah?”

“Me arse y’did,” retorted Lottie. Then she breathed a long sigh of relief. “Okay, okay.” The young woman smiled warmly. “We’ll shu’ up a bit for ye.”

_ Finally. _ “Thank you,” said Francesca.

“Ye know though,” Perkins said, “we coulda got ye inside too like.”

Francesca shrugged, and continued talking hush-hush. “I mean, sure, maybe, but I didn’t know youse would be here. You have permits?”

In return, Lottie also shrugged. “Dunno. Da could tell ye.” 

Somehow, Francesca doubted that any permit papers that elder Perkins had on him would ever be valid anywhere, at any time. Yet she had no doubt that the old fleecer would make his way in regardless. He had his ways, strange and mysterious as they were. 

“We’re already helpin’ someone else get inside though!” Lottie said excitedly. “See, we ha’ some trouble gettin’ here, you know - wee creatures wouln’ stop chasin’ us fer ages. We thought, “Ah Gads, this is it - we’re gonna die for sure,” so’s we did. Then all a’ sudden this guy comes ou’a nowhere and took out aw t’wee beasties, picked ‘em off real good!”

Quibble nodded enthusiastically at the mention of the event. Helsin had yet to make a reappearance, which meant that she had likely forgotten all about what had just happened, as she was wont to do. 

“That so?” Francesca said. She tried not to make a show of being too worried, though deep down she knew the family of elven travellers got themselves into a lot of trouble - both outside their control and self-made. But she didn’t enjoy the thought of them getting hurt either. 

Perkins the younger nodded, then flicked his head to the side, pointing out the beige horse standing beside their carriage, the very same that had been startled some time back.. “Aye, tha’s him over there like. Hasn’ said much buh he seems a good sort. An’ he’s got long ears like us, so like, have t’help a lad out, ye know? ”

Francesca stole a glance. All she could see was a bandage-wrapped shield strapped to his back and long, unkempt blonde hair peeking over it. The horse he rode one wasn’t all that large, and yet he still somehow looked too small for it. It was then that she noticed Erin had not been staring attentively at the sky, but at the rider of that horse. She caught a glimpse of the young child nervously raising and lowering his hand, building up all the courage he could muster to greet him, and though the rider appeared to notice him he made no discernable movement in acknowledgement.

Francesca sniffed, and looked back to the carriage. “Well, I’m glad to hear youse are safe anyway. Buy him a drink or something too for helping you out, aye?” The two adult children nodded, while Quibble simply kept on smiling.

Before she’d even realised Oran had left their presence, she heard him calling out the name she had given him. He beckoned her with his arm whenever she turned, and then he and Perinth moved on ahead, pushing through the crowd. 

“Say hi to your Da for me,” Francesca said back to the carriage, and they all nodded and waved her farewell for the time being.

Beside her, she was met with Clarant’s fixed, frowning glare, and Francesca could only imagine he had been staring quietly at the unfolding calamity the whole time. His expression said “Care to explain?” and Francesca answered with a shake of the head, because no. No, she really, really did not want to explain, not to him or to anyone else.

They chased after their tickets-into-the-city, snaking their way through a protesting crowd, until a female guard helped clear the way for them. She saw Oran talking to another guard at the furthest left of the portcullis, his beet-red face and sweat drenched skin as shiny as the helmet he wore. He approached Francesca and Clarant and told them what Oran had told him, then asked them to confirm that what Oran said was true, and then tell him further of the ‘situation’ that had occurred in the forest, and quite honestly all Francesca wanted right now was a drink herself, so she told the guard what she had told Oran and Perinth, with some ‘added’ details, and the guard nodded and told her and Clarant that they would look into it, and after three minutes of talking that felt like another hour of her life stolen away, she and Clarant finally entered the Free City of Caritthral, and she was so relieved that she thought her heart was about to explode inside of her, and she would almost have welcomed it. 

Half of her entire being wanted to kick Oran and Perinth off their horses and call them suckers as she galloped away past the stables and down the winding streets of the city, cackling maniacally to herself. The other half wanted to do the exact same thing, but knew that she either wouldn’t get away with it, or that she simply shouldn’t. Probably. Especially not when the child was present.

Instead they all rode up to the stables, already chock full of four-legged beasts as it was, and left their steeds in its care. Oran shook both of their hands, and Perinth did the same, but with more passion and an added peck on the cheek for her and Clarant, who appeared none too appreciative of it. They both thanked them again for their warning, and that they planned to hire a caravan to escort them tomorrow no matter the price, and Francesca wished them a lovely holiday, and said that she would be sure to buy a book from their store sometime, and with a wave back to a shy Erin, the family parted ways with them.

Francesca shouldered her bag and gripped the hilt of the rapier strapped to her belt in her palm. She turned to Clarant, who stood ramrod straight, his small bag held limply at his side. They looked at each other, and Francesca grinned warmly and gave a faked, amused sigh.

“Well,” she said.

His face didn’t even shift a muscle. “Lead the way,” Clarant said. Flat, dour, and nothing else.

Francesca nodded slowly, and turned before he could see the smile on her face falter. “Okay,” she said coldly. And with that, she began making her to the estate of Joshuel Ulynsis, where they intended to discover the secrets of how they were going to become filthy, stinking rich.


End file.
